


An Arbitrary Encounter

by kameo_chan



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Humor, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Meta Refrences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Megatron's death and the defeat of the Decepticons, Ratchet meets a very special someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Arbitrary Encounter

England, Ratchet had decided, was a horrible place. The air was moist and too saturated, and everything seemed perpetually wet. Ratchet, like most of his kind, disliked liquid of any sort that wasn’t coolant or lubricant. The liquid water encountered on this planet had so far been the worst. 

In his alt mode, Ratchet idled fitfully, waiting for NEST’s MI6 liaison to finish up his tedious assessment of their mission brief. Even sheltered as he was in the old hangar of the secluded military base NEST had somehow acquired through means best not to speculate on, the miserable driving rain and pervasive chill seemed to soak into his every servo. 

As if to prove him a point, thunder roared and crackled overhead. _This is ridiculous_ , his internal network servers whined. _I don’t see why I had to come along on this Primus-forsaken mission._

To his left, Optimus’ engine rumbled in amusement. _You used to be a diplomat once. I wonder what happened?_

_You know very well what happened_ , Ratchet snapped, not in the mood to be ribbed. _War._

Optimus was silent for a time. _Ratchet_ , he began, but Ratchet cut his comm lines. He knew what Optimus would say. It would be the same thing he said every time Ratchet fell into a funk these days. 

_There’s nothing you can do to change the past._ From across the hangar, Optimus’ engine dropped into a low, pensive idle. Ratchet ignored him like he’d ignored so much since Megatron’s defeat and Sentinel Prime’s death at his successor’s hand. Like he tried to ignore the constant, lancing spikes of pain his unbalanced, newly unbound spark constantly sent out. 

_I need some fresh air. Clear my processor,_ he shot at Optimus, opening the comm line just long enough to say what was needed and to avoid the inevitable sermon that was bound to follow. Optimus was silent, however, and Ratchet shifted gears and high-tailed it out of the hangar, much to Lennox’s confusion and the MI6 operative’s dismay. 

He caught the sound of Optimus transforming and the steady calm of his vocal capacitor as he spoke to the humans, and then everything was lost in the static rush of the downpour. As much as Ratchet hated the rain; it was a better, more preferable alternative to being cooped up with nothing more than Optimus’ knowing silences and the empty throb of his own spark. 

For a cycle, all Ratchet allowed himself to process was the wet squelch of mud sucking at his tires as he made his way down the narrow, winding country roads and the chill of the wind against his exoskeletal plates. Eventually he came to a small huddle of houses, what the humans creatively dubbed a hamlet. Ratchet still had difficulty in processing the differences between the various types of communal dwelling places humans inhabited. 

He slowed as he neared the outskirts of the little village, less of a conscious effort on his part than motor memory. Humans were, generally speaking, very frail and brittle, more so than any other organic creatures Ratchet had ever encountered, and he didn’t relish the idea of accidentally running one over. 

The hamlet itself was quaint. Quaint was a word Ratchet had taken quite a liking to, much like Optimus had taken to certain American slang terms. It seemed to fit the docile and prosaic atmosphere of the place. The rain here was also little more than a cool drizzle. 

Ratchet’s internal GPS identified the sleepy little village as Lower Tadfield. As he trundled along the narrow streets, Ratchet allowed himself the guilty pleasure of a remote internet uplink to learn more about the place. Information flowed freely into his processor: site of inexplicable weather pattern phenomena since the mid 1970’s, steady ecological climate with no sudden spikes or drops in temperature, consistent infrastructure, little to no technological development or expansion over the course of three human decades. 

Ratchet revved loudly in concentration before realizing that his actions were drawing even more attention than his chassis was. As he drove past one house in particular, his spark gave a terrifying wrench, bringing him to a lurching halt as his brakes suddenly decided to operate themselves. Ratchet idled for a moment, confusion and frustration warring with each other as his processor tried to sort out what had just happened. He ran a diagnostics scan on all his internal systems, but it came up clean. No damages, nothing. 

As he stood, parked and idling in the driveway of some nondescript human home, there was another tug on his spark. Ratchet revved his engine fitfully, unable to process why his spark was acting so erratically, when all of a sudden, his driver’s side door flew open and a tall man with strong features – handsome, as Carly undoubtedly would have said – and blonde hair hopped into the seat. 

“Right on!” the man exclaimed. “Blimey, I’ve always wanted to drive a genuine Hummer!” Ratchet gunned his engine angrily and tried to eject the man from the seat, only to find that his body didn’t want to obey him. 

“Settle down now,” the man spoke, and though Ratchet knew certain humans spoke to their automotive vehicles in much the same way they spoke to other humans, his processor immediately issued a warning that this was not the case. The human seemed to know that beneath his alt mode, there was more to him than met the eye. 

“Y’know, I’d heard they kept some giant robots up at the mil’tary base for top secret government missions and such, but this? This is bloody brilliant!” the man enthused, stroking a hand over Ratchet’s steering wheel. Ratchet couldn’t help the shudder that wracked his chassis. There was something about the feel of the man’s hand that sent signals of nervousness and excitement running along his cabling in a mix of confused processing. 

“S’alright,” the man said amicably. “I’m not gonna hurt you or nuthin’. You can close the door if you’d like. I mean, I dunno which part of you that’d be, but carry on then.” 

Ratchet found himself obeying the man; driver’s side door coming closed with a quiet click. Not even Optimus had ever held this much sway over him, and Ratchet wondered for a moment whether the man truly was human, or merely a clever Decepticon ruse. Primus only knew those bastards more than likely had the technology to set up something like this. 

“No, no,” the man said, and Ratchet started, engine revving loudly. “No, I ain’t no Decepticon. I hate Decepticons. Awful bunch, they are. ‘Sides, Pepper’s the one who used to like the Decepticons.” 

Ratchet could scarcely believe his audio receptors. “You knew what I was thinking of? And you know of the Decepticons? Are you… Are you Cybertronian?” The man in his driver’s seat gave a raucous laugh. 

“No, I’m Adam, I am. Adam Young and I’m just a regular human being, kind of like your friend Sam.” 

Ratchet’s internal alarms went off immediately, and warnings signalled across his optic field. And yet, he couldn’t help asking. “You know Sam? As in, Samuel Witwicky?” 

“Yeah, guess you could say that. Not personally though. But I do know all His creatures mostly, great and small,” Adam replied cryptically. Ratchet’s sensors couldn’t detect any changes in the man’s biochemistry, and unwillingly came to the conclusion that he was speaking the truth, though not a whole or particularly coherent one. 

“Who is this _He_?” Ratchet asked instead. Adam patted his dash, and Ratchet’s spark gave a particularly painful pulse. 

“Well see, that’s the thing. Everyone’s got diff’rent names for him, innit? Like you Cybertronians. You call him Primus.” There was an undertone of calm rationality in Adam’s voice as he spoke, which inexplicably set Ratchet at ease. His processor protested, insisted that something was fundamentally wrong with the whole situation, but nothing seemed to want to compute. 

“God?” Ratchet asked, and Adam made a vague sound of assent. “I don’t understand.” 

“And there’s the beauty of it,” Adam said with a grin and a cheeky wink. “You don’t need to. S’bad enough they’ve got me carrying all this nonsense around in my poor old head. No sense in makin’ others carry the burden as well.” 

“Then… What do you want with me?” Ratchet asked. He could feel his processor slowing down, trying to short out involuntarily. _This must be how humans feel when they go into shock_ , he thought dimly. 

Adam raised a concerned eyebrow and smacked his upholstery. “Hey now. Fainting’s for humans, you hear? At any rate, I’m here more or less to set something to rights. See, it’s been botherin’ me since I saw the movie an’ all, and I thought I could set things straight for you.” 

“Movie? As in, a filmed representation of storytelling for recreational purposes? I don’t…” Ratchet could feel his optic cables overheating enough to almost go offline. Something was dreadfully wrong. 

“Yeah, stupid fellow called Michael Bay. Got the story totally screwed up. I mean, what a tosser. Kept killing off all the really good ‘Bots without knowing what he was _really_ doing. But that’s neither here nor there, now is it? All I know is you called me here because I could feel how much you missed your sparkmate. Or is it your bondmate? I never get how it works with you robots.” Adam’s voice was growing faint, even though an internal scan of Ratchet’s systems indicated nothing to support the sensation. 

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Adam murmured, reaching out, reaching _in_. There was a sharp, searing flare of pain; enough that Ratchet thought for a moment that he was dying, falling away into the emptiness of the Pit. And then, light and sound and colour, flooding his sensors with enough force to send him hurtling into recharge. 

“Take care of each other,” said a bright voice, and for a moment, Ratchet’s processor brought up the image of a young human boy, sneakers scuffed and shoddily tied, walking along a narrow country lane and into the haze of an endless summer-blue sky. 

\--- 

“Ratchet,” said that same voice, closer now, and somehow gruffer. 

“Ratchet!” Another voice, familiar like the first one, but stiffer and more commanding in tone. 

“By Primus, medic! Wake the slag up or I’ll blow a hole through that fraggin’ useless lump of a processor of yours!” 

Ratchet came online in an instant. “Oh shut up, you trigger happy maniac,” he snarled as his optics settled on Ironhide. For a moment, Ratchet felt elation and relief flood his processor in a tidal wave of emotion. It was alien and unsettling, and without meaning to, he pressed a hand to his chest, where his spark was thrumming eagerly. It was almost as though something which had been missing had been mended and replaced. 

Ratchet quickly dismissed the notion however, in favour of spearing Ironhide with a particularly sharp glare. “What is it with you, and blowing things up? Cannon toting lunatic.” 

Optimus chuckled, and reached out to pat Ratchet on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t be so harsh on him. He was quite worried when you suddenly went into recharge like that.” 

“Yeah, well,” Ironhide huffed. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye out for him. Who’ll heal the medic and all that slag?” Ratchet didn’t miss the way he surreptitiously pressed a hand to his own spark, nor the mixture of concern and mild irritation that flooded their bond shortly after. 

“Sentimental old coot,” Ratchet murmured, echoing Ironhide’s gesture. There was a strange, fleeting sensation of things falling into place. And then Ratchet sent out pulse after pulse of warm, indulgent familiarity through their bond. Ironhide shot him a small smile, and a second later, Ratchet’s private servers received a small, encrypted transmission. _I love you_ , it read. 

Just then, there came a whirring screech of metal and loud cries throughout the hangar. Jazz pulled up short, stopping mere inches from Ratchet, face plates shadowed in concern. “Hey, man. Ratchet, you feelin’ any better yet? You had us goin’ with your little stop, drop and recharge routine there.” 

“I’m fine,” Ratchet murmured, optics still trained on Ironhide. 

“I have to admit,” Optimus cut in, and all three of them to turned to him as one. “I’m curious as to what happened. Were your fuel reserves low, Ratchet?” 

“I… I don't know. I can’t remember,” Ratchet replied truthfully. Scanning his memory banks did absolutely nothing. All his backup systems provided him with was that he'd felt exhausted and sparksore, as though he’d been waiting for something for megavorns. 

“Well, whatever man. I’m gonna go let Prowl and the others know you’re alright. Keep it cool, Ratch!” And just like that, Jazz was off again, music blasting loudly from his internal capacitors, sending humans scurrying out of the way and shaking angry little fists at him once he’d passed. 

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Optimus asked, arching an optic ridge at him. 

“Oh, for Primus’ sake! _Yes_ , Prime. Now, shouldn’t you be off seeing to the safeguarding of Earth or something equally important?” Ratchet asked smartly, mirroring Optimus’ expression. The larger bot relented, waving his hands in a placating gesture. 

“I get the message, Ratchet,” he said, before clapping Ratchet on the shoulder one last time and heading off to find Lennox or Mearing or Simmons, presumably. 

Finally, there was only the two of them left. Ironhide gave him a long, considering look that made Ratchet feel like grinding his dental plates together. But before he could give voice to his irritation and threaten Ironhide with impromptu reconstructive surgery, the bulkier bot leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his face plate. 

“You had me worried, you cranky old fragger,” Ironhide muttered. For once, Ratchet was at a loss for a smart reply. So instead, he wrapped his arms around his bondmate, crushing their chests together as though he could merge their sparks through sheer willpower alone. 

“I love you too, you slag-sucking fool,” he whispered in Ironhide’s audio receptor. “I love you too.” 

\--- 

No one in, on or around the base noted the two figures perched nonchalantly amidst the branches of a nearby tree. 

“Kind of daft, aren’t they? For superior robotic entities, I mean,” Crowley observed, taking a large bite out of a juicy, red-skinned apple. 

“God moves in mysterious ways. Or should I say, Primus,” Aziraphale supplied, dabbing daintily at the corners of his mouth with a kerchief. He did ever so love apple crumble, but it always left crumbs everywhere. 

“More like in circles, if you ask me,” Crowley muttered, but decided to leave it at that. Let Aziraphale make of it what he wanted to. He tossed his half-eaten apple to the ground, satisfied with a minor misdemeanour for the day. He didn’t care what the higher-ups – or in their particular case, lower-downs – said; littering did too count as a sin, if a very small and insignificant sin at that. 

“Come along then, angel. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the boy before he disrupts yet another universe’s continuity. I’ll treat you to a glass of the best Sauvignon-Blanc you’ve ever tasted at the Ritz once we’re done.”

“That, my dear, is a marvellous idea,” Aziraphale answered with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> All right. I feel that a little background is needed to explain where this came from, before somebody bursts a couple of capillaries and I get sued for irreparable brain damage. 
> 
> I was watching DoTM again the other day, enjoying all the slashy undertones and Alan Tudyk in particular, when I craved some Bayverse fic of the Ratch/'Hide kind. But everything is either death or doom and gloom - which, okay, I love a good angsty story, but after about the fourth one, I was bawling my eyes out. 
> 
> And then I had the idea of writing a fic where Ironhide's spark is unable to find peace and kind of starts haunting Ratchet. It didn't gel too well however, and needed copious, laughable amounts of suspension to pull off. And then I spied Good Omens sitting on my bookshelf, patiently biding its time. 
> 
> And viola! So now, I am the proud author of a GO/Bayverse cross-over fic. Go me!


End file.
